Anne smith the accused witch

By: Ruthanne

“Come on wake up it’s time for you trial.” says one of the prison guards in a angry tone. The truth is I am already awake I have been awake for hours just sitting in my cell and thinking what will become of myself. Will the judges decide that I am guilty? I hope not I have done nothing wrong. The only reason that I am here is because of my neighbor and her husband who recently lost their child are taking her anger out on me. Oh sorry I forgot to introduce myself my name is Anne. I own a small piece of land and a farm. I am in the middling class. I get some money off of the farm but also before my husband died he left me some money. I do not live like a queen but I have a good life. Oh wait sorry had a good life I could die if they decide I am guilty. “Come on,” Says the guard, I can tell he is getting mad now. “I am not guilty! I am not guilty!” I yell at the guard. He takes one step back in surprise. “Oh really is that so?” says the guard in a mocking tone. “Come with me.” The guard takes me to the courthouse where the trial is being held. I sit on a small stool close to where the judge sits. The room is well lit and I am surrounded by many people. I look around and in the corner of the room I see my neighbor we look eyes for a moment and then I quickly turn my head. I hate her she is the reason that I am here in the first place. I feel like jumping out of my chair rushing over to her and strangling her. Though I know if I do that they will kill me for sure, so I sit and wait. As the trial starts I see my life flashing before my eyes, I should have been more grateful maybe then this would never have happened.

The judge walks into the room and the trial begins. I am so nervous that I shake in my chair. My life could end today, I think to myself. The judge lets me go first. “I am not guilty!” I yell and scream. The guard rushes over to me and pushes me back into my chair. “Ok,” says the judge. “I am giving you one more chance to say what you want to say. Do you have any witnesses?” “No!” I yell. “I have no one! My husband is dead and so is the rest of my family.” “Well then,” says the judge. “That makes it easy.” “Easy, oh how could you do this to me I have done nothing wrong.” The pressure is too much I had one chance to prove a was not guilty and I just lost it. All the sudden I faint. When I wake up I have no idea where I am. Am I dead? I think to myself. I sit up and I look around I am still in the courthouse. The guard helps me up back into my chair, and the trial resumes. My neighbor Anne is the first one to come up. “This lady is a witch!” She yells. “She is responsible for my poor baby’s death.” She starts to cry. “Oh come on,” I say. “Everyone knows that it is not uncommon to lose a child in childbirth.” All the sudden she rushes up to me and tries to get at me. Luckily the guard stops her and she is taken out of the room. More people come up and say that I am guilty, one couple said that I killed their pigs with sickness. “really?” I say aloud. “How do you propose that I killed your pigs?” “You used your witch magic,” said the husband. “I have no more magic than you do!” I stand up and yell at the man, the guard rushes over and sits me back down. The rest of the trial passes quickly. People accuse me of killing their crops and livestock. One lady even said I brang plage to her household. Another lady says that she saw visions of me and that I was telling her to join me. A few more people accuse me and I still do nothing, I feel that all is lost. When I think about it all of the things that people said I did all have something in common. Those are all things that they are blaming me for because they do not know what happened. Did I really kill peoples animals with plage? No! This is all just a way for people to find answers. Some people that accused me don’t like me. It is a way for them to get rid of me. I am not particularly popular in the town I do not have a husband and I am one of the older women in town. Well none of that might matter now if they decide I am guilty I will be hanged. The guard taps me on the shoulder and I realize I am still in the courthouse. The judge starts to talk, “everyone I have made a decision and…”

Day 1

I am Tabitha Johnson an English thirteen year old girl. My family is quite wealthy– we’re from the gentry class. My mother, Rosaline, my father, Henry, my brother, Isaac and I live in Williamsburg. About a year ago, my father was accepted to work at the House of Burgesses. So, we moved to Williamsburg. The house has just been completed and I love everything about it. This morning I wake up and feel sunlight beaming into my room. The light spring breeze gently blows my white curtains. It’s early May, my favorite month and time of year. I sit up in my white cotton bed and just sit there for a few moments. I look over and see Isaac sleeping in his little bed across the room. When I gather enough energy, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet touch the smooth wooden floors. I walk over to the closet and choose my outfit for the day. Of course, my whole wardrobe is made of dresses. When I am dressed, I slowly walk out of the door with my head held high and my shoulders back, just the way my mother taught me. Before I reach the frame of the door, I look up and see the engraved pineapple on the wall. The pineapple symbolizes hospitality and welcome. It always makes me feel a little better.

I’ve looked at every single detail in every single room. My dream is to build or design houses, just like the men who built ours. I learned quite a bit while they were around and I’ve taken an interest to it. Father says it’s just a phase and that I should be realistic, because I am a girl. Girls are meant to get married, have children, cook, and clean. Not anything more or less. I know that will be my fate, because soon, I will have to get married. Mother tries to teach me what I will have to do to be woman. I love both my mother and father, but I feel like I was born in the wrong place or time. I don’t understand it, but I know I was meant to do other things. Not just have a family, that’s all people think women are. People who are supposed to get married, have children and die. I don’t do much each day, but my mother insists that I have proper etiquette. I don’t leave the house often, without my mother or father. But when I do, it’s usually to get food. That’s another thing I have to do. I have to learn to cook, but I find it extremely difficult. I would much rather be doing something else. But I’m still very thankful that I am not enslaved. My family doesn’t own a slave yet, but I really do hope that we don’t get to. I remember one of the men working on our house told me about all different kinds of houses. He said that slave’s houses only took a few weeks to make. He said that instead of making the houses with wooden planks, they used logs because it was only a slave house and it didn’t need to look good. The holes the logs left in the walls would be filled in with dirt. The slaves have to dig holes in the dirt ground to hide their belongings from their homes because they’re not allowed to keep them. I think that the way we treat slaves is horrible. But, I can’t say anything or do anything. I’m only a girl and even if I wasn’t, so many people would be angry and disagree with me. I could get in huge trouble.

Today, I don’t have anything to do. I do get sent to get more silverware from the silversmith, but I enjoy going out. I walk out my house with Isaac, my 5 year old brother and breathe in the fresh air. The sun is shining and there are lots of people outside. I slowly walk down the streets. I look at all the different houses that are so similar and still different. I remember that the men working on our houses said that planks on the outside of the houses would have little indents or ridges to make them look thinner. Thinner planks looked more expensive and made the house look less massive. I notice that many of these houses have that illusion. The ground is covered in broken up oyster shells. People eat oysters and throw them out onto the ground so people will step on them to create a gravel. But, I look around and see girls a few years older than me. I realize that that could be me in about a year.

Day 2

At around midnight, I wake up to horrible cries. It’s Isaac. He’s in his bed sweating and crying. I run downstairs in my nightgown to my parents room. I shake my father awake and tell him about Isaac. Everything from there seems blurred and slow. My parents sprint upstairs to our bedroom and scoop Isaac into their arms. Isaac is too young, he needs to live. We don’t know what to do. “We need to bring him to the apothecary. NOW!” father exclaims. Father insists that I stay home and go back to bed, but both mother and father have to go with Isaac and I don’t want to be along. So, we all go to the apothecary. We wrap Isaac in a small, light blanket and get dressed quickly. My dad holds Isaac in his arms and whispers that it will be ok. I don’t know what will happen.

The air is light and the moonlight is reflected onto the ground creating a eerie glow. The apothecary’s house is pretty small. Three knocks on her door. A few moments later, a man comes to the door. He motions for us to step inside. The interior is pretty simple, but it has many medicines on shelves and many tools. He says that Isaac is too warm and we have to drain the bad blood from him with leeches. He takes four leeches out of a jar and places them on Isaac’s arm. The leeches are long and slimy. I have to look away, I can’t see my little brother in pain. Minutes go by, and soon Isaac is done. We arrive home and go back to bed. Isaac has to sleep in my mother and father’s room just in case anything were to happen.

Tonight, I lie awake. My head is full of fear and energy. I worry. I worry about Isaac, I worry about getting married, I worry about doing nothing my whole life. But it’s not just me I worry about. I worry about the slaves, the servants everyone. We are all forced to live different lives based on our skin or riches. I know I get to live a life that other people envy, but I wish I could fix everyone. Or just be something or someone else. These thoughts are what keeps me up every night. But like every other time, I am soon drifting off to sleep.

December 21, 1698

I woke up today like any other day. I woke up to a chilly morning, still thinking about my husband who died three years ago. He owned this printing shop, I took over the shop as the printer and my sister as the bookbinder. I walked down the stairs to my printing press, I saw my sister Charlotte Godfrey sitting in her usual chair water marbling a piece of paper. Water marbling is a technique my husband taught Charlotte a while ago. I don’t know much about it since I’m not the bookbinder, but I’m pretty sure it’s where Charlotte drops a little watercolor inside a tray and swirls it around with a special tool. After that she dips the paper in the swirled color and leaves it to dry. The technique is used for bookbinding because leather is quite expensive and marbled paper is cheaper. My sister and I are both middle-class women, I’m 28 and my sister is 22. My daughter is 12 and my son is 8. I guess I think about the same things everyday, my daughter, my son, my sister, my deceased husband and my job. My husband George Cyrus, died of malaria. I didn’t know he was dying, I was out of town with both of my children and my sister, doing some work. When I got back home there was a doctor waiting. He said he was sorry, he said that George died. I didn’t know what to say, I was shocked. I left town for a week and all the sudden George dies. I don’t like to talk about it now, but I think of George’s death constantly. I miss him a lot, and without him, supporting the family is much harder. Anyways, printing is a moderately stable job, I make enough money to support all of us. I make about 15 shillings a week, which is a lot in some cases. But if I type anything offensive, to anyone at all. My license can be taken away. My family and I are always at risk. If I lose my job then we will have no money. All our money comes from my printing job, my family depends on me. My children are both well educated, I taught both of them how to read and write when they were both very young. My sister hasn’t found a love and I’m starting to wonder when she will. After my husband died both of my children were devastated. I grab my apron of its shelf, and slip it on. The apron is almost completely black from all the ink now. I start to print some extra copies of the Virginia Gazette, I pull the lever, push the paper, pull the lever, push the paper. Over and over again, my life is quite repetitive and I would like more excitement. Some people say that my life is great, they wish they were me, they say I can express my feelings in what I write. But I can’t. They don’t realize that if someone takes offense to what I write, my entire family is at risk. I write what I am told, I write what is sent to me. All I do is arrange type, ink them, and pull a bar. For the entire day. I wish that my life had more excitement, my husband was still here. But I don’t at the same time. My job is stable, and I have enough money to support all of us, the last thing I would want is my family going into poverty.

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

I am Elizabeth Parris, but if you knew me you would call me Betty. I am nine years old, and I live in Salem, Massachusetts, with my family. My father is the minister in Salem, and we are Puritans. I live with my cousin, two sisters, and two brothers. We have two slaves called Tituba and Indian John. I don’t know much about our slaves, but Tituba knows magic. Sometimes she teaches me, my cousin Abigail and Abigail’s friends. My family is from England, but we were pushed out a long time ago by King James, because we are Puritan. My great grandfather came to Salem on the first boat in 1630. He was persecuted and ridiculed back in England, for being pious, hardworking and conservative. When my father tells me that story he always gets upset. Sometimes he will even yell at the sky. We are really religious, we attend church every day and we pray all the time. Because of our religion, my sisters and I have to wear long skirts, and long sleeves because we are extremely conservative. My hair is always covered when I leave the house. My best friend .is Abigail, but I’m not sure if that counts because she is my cousin. We mostly spend our days sewing, cleaning, gardening, and cooking. I hate sewing, but I love cooking, because when we cook, we sit around the fire with Tituba. Tituba tells us stories about Barbados. Some of our friends don’t believe them, but I do. She tells us about the Devil, and evil monsters, and Hell. She shows us magic and spells that she can do. Abigail, our friend Ann Putnam, and I have tried to learn them, but we can’t do it like she can. My father gets mad at Tituba a lot. He rages and prays to God when she messes something up. He is a very emotional person. I guess that’s why he was hired to be the priest here. Most days I don’t have much free time. Our religion makes sure that we don’t have time to be idle, and my mother keeps us on a tight schedule of work and prayers. When I do have free time, I am either learning my lessons (both religious, and school), playing with my dolls and Abigail or Ann or listening to Tituba’s tales.

A Day in the Life Of A Boy that loves toys

 I am Jon Hamm. I am a 13 year old gentry boy that loves games.  My favorite games are Shut the Box, Wooden soldier and crazy eights.  I like Trap Ball. I play that with my brother on the weekend and after my tutor.  My brother and sister love games also.  My brothers favorite game is Fox and Geese.  After my tutor or after we play trap ball in the yard, my brother and I head to the Toy Shop.  I meet the Toy shop owner, George, and we look at toys all afternoon and choose which one we want so on the weekend my father can buy us one.  My sister doesn’t like being that active but she likes playing dolls.  She likes Porcelain dolls and since we live in the center of town she can just walk to the millinery and look at dolls and dresses.  Today I am outside in my backyard behind our big white house.  My brother is rolling back the ball trying to hit the trap.  “Hay William Drescher”  Drescher was his middle name. “I bet that you can’t hit the trap”.  He looks at me madly with treacherous eyes.  

“Don’t call me by my middle name!!!”  said William

“Okay” I said.

I hit the trap and the ball went really far.  William picked up and rolled it back to the trap.  The ball was rolling fast and it was headed right for the trap.  The ball was going to hit the trap and then it hit a pebble and bounced away.  

“WHAT? NO THAT WAS GOING T-”

“Don’t worry about it William, it’s okay I’ll give you the point.  Things must be drawing their near end now. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Okay…” He looked down at the ground and walked toward the house.  

After dinner I caught William doing something on the table.  He was playing Fox and Geese.  

“William.” I said.

*No Answer.*  

“William! *No Answer* WILLIAM!”

“WHAT?!” He said in a loud tone .

“Stop and put that down.”  

“NO!” William said.  Mother walked through the kitchen hall and stared at us.  “What is going on you two?”

“Uhhhh.”  

“TELL ME NOW OR YOU GET PUT IN YOUR ROOM.” said Mother.

“William was making Fox and Geese on the table.” I said.

Mother stared at us both. “YOU BOTH ARE GOING TO YOUR ROOM.  With no toys.”

“Mom” said both of us.  

“I don’t even know why your father spoils you with toys.” She mumbled under her breath.” She said. “MARCH!”

WIlliam and I walk down the hall to our rooms with anger in my mind because of how he got me in trouble.  We walked in to our room.

“Hay.”

“What.” William said.  

“Lets go play some fox and geese on your bedboard.”

He looked up and smiled.  We played that whole night until our mother came in.  But now you don’t want to hear the rest of the story. It is too gruesome.

Name: Elisabeth Colonial Research Project

Humanities A Day In The Life Of….

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

My parents came to America from England, they came in search of better jobs. I am Amity Cartwell, and I came to America with my family and my cousin’s family a couple years back. My brother refused to come along; he thought that England’s economy was just going through a rough time, and would be back up in a year or two. I have a sister who came with us, and her children attend our school. My cousin, Emily Baker, and I run a dame school for the local children. Emily and I have been raised together for our entire lives. In our old life in England, our parents had to work almost all day just to have food. Because of this, we shared a house and spent much of our time together practicing the letters that our fathers had managed to teach us in between shifts. Now, here in America we are of the middling class, and are some of the very few women with the knowledge of reading and writing. I wake up early in the morning, to prepare for the day’s lessons. The children I teach come shortly after, they are between the ages of 6-8. My cousin lives in a neighboring house, so she comes with the materials like chalkboards for the students to practice writing on. We teach in my living room until almost sun-down, and then the children leave again, we make use of all the sunlight we can. It is winter now so our days are shorter, we cannot teach them as much as in the summer when the days are longer. I enjoy my job, it allows me to feel like I can always leave for another place, like I am not tied down to any housework or a domestic life. My education gives me a more equal life.

I am Charlotte. I work as a domestic servant in a tavern. I am the laundress. I work besides many slaves and witness how hard their life is compared to mine, even though we do many of the same jobs. I came to the colonies as an indentured servant which means that my journey was payed for by my master. I now owe them seven years of service. My parents did not approve of my decision to move here, and they still live in London, but I feel strongly that their is a better life to be had here and that one day I may be able to own a shop of my own. In my daily life I witness the life of slaves. The cook of the tavers name is Kristina. She works hard every day and will never be free. We are very close friends and I often talk to her about the hardships of being enslaved. Kristina has to work very hard to raise her family every day while still cooking all the meals in the tavern. I witness all the ways that she tries to teach her children about their African heritage. Sometimes she even sneaks off to gatherings at the nearby plantations. She knows that I am aware when she leaves to go the gatherings, and has made me sware that I will never tell anybody what she does. I she was caught she could be severely punished. Both her and I sleep above where we work. I sleep above the laundry room, and am responsible to make sure that all the guests sheets and clothing get cleaned. She sleeps above the kitchen and has to wake up early each morning to ensure that every meal for all the tavern guests is ready to be served.  She works very hard and I often wonder what I must be like to know that she will never be free.  When she is done cooking all the meals she often serves me and the other slaves leftovers. We all gather and eat in my workspace, the laundry. We eat there because there is the most spare space there because their is the most spare working space and that way none of the other workers need to worry about where they are going make space for all of us to eat.  During the day I try try to work outside as often as possible. The water pump is there and if I work near it I do not need to carry the heavy laundry as far from in the tavern to the laundry. Kristina tells me that when she sneaks off for gatherings that their are slaves who do jobs like working in the wealthy plantation owners house, and on his fields.  She says that all the slaves who work the fields are even more tired than we are, and I can’t even begin to think of how hard their lives must be.  I have been able to meet the slaves who work across the main road in the Randolph house. They are house slaves, and are not even able to attend the gatherings, because they are always with their master.  I feel very excited to be done with my time as a servant. I think that with my new knowledge of the colony I will be able to start a new business once I am free.  I notice that sometimes Kirstina seems depressed she seems sad not for herself but for her children whom she knows will never be free because they were born to an enslaved mother. I wish that I could help her some way but deep down I know that there’s nothing I can do to help her besides being her friend.

From the viewpoint of Laura McKinley, 2nd year weaver.

The first thing I do when I awake is rush to my mother’s bedside. The sun has just peeked over the horizon, the round quartered window casting a shadowy cross on my mother’s pale yellow face. I long to kiss my mother’s forehead, wistfully remembering my mother’s dancing chocolate curls and laughing deep eyes, before yellow fever. I straighten up quickly and hurry away, my eyes brimming with tears as I look at the sickly husk my mother has become. I hurry and light the fire downstairs, warming the house as I patter around, careful to make not a sound. I do not wish to invoke my aunt’s ire. On days my mother feels strong, she tells me not to be cross with my aunt. She simply has a lot of stress. I can see it, too. My aunt is a headstrong woman. She shares my mother’s hair and eyes, but they are different on her. Her hair and she herself remind me of a grizzly bear, dangerous and fierce. Her eyes seem to glow with rage when a rude woman comes in and loudly remarks about the poor workmanship. Her words are like ice daggers, her eyes as cold as the moon. They say GET OUT, and although her voice is chilly, it still respectful. Her eyes are a snake’s, mesmerizing and threatening. The shrill noblewoman’s voice disappears from the air soon after she speaks. But after the shop closes, she is warm and comforting, holding me close when I cry. She’d tell me how Ruby, my mother, would be alright and have I ever lied to you? And when she is especially tired, I’d rub her feet and brush her dark curls, noting the streaks of gray.
I shake myself out of my reverie. The shop is opening soon. I pick up a broom and start sweeping. But I am small, though I am smart. I am too enthusiastic in my undertakings, my aunt says. She is right. I do not last long. I do not rest though, because the sun will wake Aunt Helen soon. I breeze through my other chores by force of will alone, and sit panting, occasionally taking a bite of breakfast. “Well, aren’t you taking your sweet time,” comes a voice behind me. I turn and look at my aunt, and while I don’t wish to make her angry, nothing in the world could make me rise from my chair. “Foolish child,” she says, eyes twinkling. “You shouldn’t try so hard. Lord knows the apothecary charges an arm and a leg.” I grin up at her, and having finally recovered my composure, I help set up the shop. The shop is booming today for one reason or another, and I hardly have time to rest between requests. During a lull in activity, I realize I am smiling. My hands smell of lanolin, the dye gurgles on the fire, my aunt is directing a shipment of beetles.
By the end of the day, my fingers are stained a rainbow of colors from working at the dye pot. I hurry and scour my hands. The stains of the dyes last forever, and my aunt learned that the hard way. I am pleasantly tired at the end of the day, the strongbox just a little harder to close. Best of all, Father wrote a beautiful love letter to Mother, and she is awake. I read it to her and then quietly left to bring her food. She was asleep when I looked back, a beatific smile gracing her face. I do not dare to hope, but deep down, in my heart of hearts, I think she is recovering. And the next day, she is livelier than I’ve seen in a week. I was worried about her since she’s always been delicate. But she is fine. I throw myself at my work with a vengeance, full of energy, and soon some of my works look better than a 3rd year’s. And then I get the bad news. My 17-year old cousin John is going to war. I’m worried about John, who feels like a brother. But John is resourceful and resilient, so I know that somehow, he’ll come back safe. I go to bed, buoyed up by my thoughts and fall into a peaceful sleep. I dream of the gift I’m saving up to buy Mother.